


Your soul laid bare

by Splicegrl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: And the Eye drinks it all in, Night Vale Community Radio, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splicegrl/pseuds/Splicegrl
Summary: There is an eye in your kitchen. There is an eye in your hall. There is an eye in the sky, never blinking, always watching. You cannot hide from the Eye.Welcome to Night Vale.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	Your soul laid bare

There is an eye in your kitchen. There is an eye in your hall. There is an eye in the sky, never blinking, always watching. You cannot hide from the Eye.

Welcome to Night Vale.

You walk down your street. You reach the intersection, and you do not turn left. On the street to the left it is Street Cleaning Day, and screams and groans of the dying can be blocked out but the copper stench of blood clings to your clothes. It is always Street Cleaning Day on the street to the left. The cleaning will not stop while the Eye still watches. The street cleaners ignore you. This is not your hell. You turn right.

The next street is full of doppelgängers. You know that they are doppelgängers, though you do not know how you know. Their smiles are slightly too wide. Their movements are slightly too fast. It is not a large neighborhood, but you do not know them. You speed up as you walk past them. Their eyes follow you, but they do not pursue you. This is not your hell.

You’re walking faster now. You approach downtown. You do not remember why you are going downtown. There are people on the sidewalk now. Their hats cover their faces, but you can feel their eyes on you as you pass. You pass a subway station. You do not take the subway. There is no room for the trains to move in the tunnels anymore. There is no room for anything to move in the tunnels anymore. There is no room to breathe in the tunnels anymore. You pass the subway station and do not look back. It is not your hell.

There are more people on the sidewalk now. You do not know them, but they know you. Oh, do they know you. They know who are. They know _what_ you are. They know what you have _done_. You hunch your shoulders and stare at the ground to avoid their eyes. You wish you had a collar to turn up against their gazes, or a hat to pull down over your face, but you left home in such a hurry that you have neither coat nor hat. You’re so forgetful. You do not remember why you left in such a hurry.

The people whisper your secrets to each other. You do not know exactly what they know but you know they know enough. You do not know exactly what they say, but you recognize the shapes of your greatest failings and your deepest flaws. You do not know these people, but they know you, and they pass your most shameful secrets among them like informational pamphlets. 

You try to hide. You turn onto a side street. There are more people there. A chuckle runs through the crowd. Only you could be so stupid as to think you could evade their eyes by turning a corner. You start running. You duck into an alleyway. The eyes on the walls glare silent judgement of your cowardice. You run through downtown, searching desperately for a place to hide. You cannot hide from the watchers. You cannot escape the eyes. This is your hell.

You run through the crowd. The people are all stopped now, watching you silently, moving only to stay just out of reach. They do not want you to touch them. You are unworthy to touch them. The people in the crowd would never stumble blindly through the downtown, searching futilely for an escape from the always-watching eyes, because the people in the crowd have no reason to fear the eyes. They have never done anything wrong. They have no deep and abiding sins, no black marks on their souls, no shameful fantasies, and so they have no reason to fear being Known. You do. You have all those things, and this is a hell entirely of your own making.

You flee their censorious gazes. You tell yourself that you could be a better person if you only knew how, but that is a lie. You know it is a lie even as you run back to your home, past all the people who have not earned their hells like you have. You have tried to be a person who does not fear the eye. You failed. You will try again. You will fail again. You know this because you know what your best is, and your best is not enough. You are not enough. You will never be enough, and it is no one’s fault but your own. The people in the crowd are right to judge you. This is your hell. You deserve to be here.

You stumble into your home. You close the door but it does not lessen the sensation of being watched. There is an eye on your door. You go into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. You are thirsty. Your breathing is heavy. You cannot remember why. The eye in your kitchen watches you balefully. Of course you can’t remember. You can’t do anything right. You wander into the hall. You almost trip over a pair of shoes, and some of your water spills. The eye in the hall watches the spill with judgement but no surprise. If you were actually a functioning adult you wouldn’t leave your shoes in the hall to trip over. You wander into your bedroom. You finish your glass of water and put it down on the nightstand. The eyes in your bedroom follow your motions with disgust. You’re such a slob. No wonder you live alone. How could anyone ever put up with a complete mess like you?

The eyes are too much. You need to get away. You go to the front door. You forget to stop to get a coat. You’re so forgetful. You open the door. The eyes in the sky stare at you, unblinking. They never stop staring. Even your roof cannot stop their gaze. You shiver and close the door a little harder than necessary. You walk down your street.

There is a man, and a being who was once a man. They move through the space that was once the world outside of Night Vale, toward the tower that can always be seen and always sees. The being that was once a man watches you walk, and the part of it that still is a man hates to see your terror even as the part of it that was never a man revels in it. The being who was once a man watches you walk, and watches me speak, and looks through all the eyes in the sky and watches a hundred thousand tortures and the part of it that was never a man drinks it all in.

The man is listening to a radio. My voice comes out of the radio, and my words distress him. “Jon,” he says, but he does not know what to say next. The being who was once a man says “You’re like me,” in a crisp British accent. I do not know if I am like the being. “You’re of the Eye,” it says. The man looks miserable, just as dear, perfect Carlos looks miserable, curled up against the wall of the recording studio.

Speaking of Carlos, do not fear, dear listeners. Carlos was visiting me when the world ended, and so far appears to be safe from the various torments our lovely community has been subjected to. I do not know how long this period of relative safety will last, but for now, find some solace in knowing that at least two people have been spared the unending nightmare of our new reality.

The being who was once a man turns toward the tower. It does not know what it will find there. It can only hope that what it finds will be enough. It begins to move again. The man follows. He does not know what else to do.

Now, as I watch the being who is not a man through a window that has never been here before, I too, can only hope that what they find is enough. Perhaps the tower that can always been seen contains the power to return the world to its former beautiful but imperfect glory. Perhaps it only contains the power to bring us all to a swift and final end. Perhaps there is nothing in the tower, and it exists only to give us false hope that all of this is temporary.

I cannot leave this booth, dear listeners, and so I cannot throw open the doors of that ever-present tower. Instead I wait here, with you. You are not alone, Night Vale. I am here. I will witness all of your fears and I will love you for them as gently and as deeply as I can, until that great and terrible being reaches its destination and we find what future lies within its walls.

There are no nights anymore, and if there were they would not be good ones. With this in mind, I strain to follow the progress of the being who was once a man and wish you all, at some point in the undetermined future, at least one good night, Night Vale.

Good night.


End file.
